The Swap(65)

A lump of self-pity formed in my throat. “Thanks.”

He gave my arm an affectionate squeeze and then left.





60


Freya returned looking relaxed, happy, and a little hungover. “God, I needed that,” she said, sinking into the white sofa.

“Glad you had fun,” I said, only the slightest edge to my voice. I was holding Maggie, jiggling her gently on my shoulder. “We were fine here. Alone.”

“Good,” she said, oblivious of or ignoring my tone. “I need to do a photo shoot with Maggie.”

I had been anticipating this suggestion. Freya had made the critical error of chronicling her wine tasting, her sunbathing, and her culinary adventures on Instagram and YouTube. Some of her followers appreciated her glamorous photos, but others were ruthless.

Leaves her newborn baby to get drunk in wine country. #motheroftheyear

I’m sure the nanny is having a great time right now too.

People this selfish should be sterilized.

These attacks gave me a sense of satisfaction. I wanted Freya to feel guilty for leaving Maggie and me. I wanted her to regret her trip to Sonoma so much that she never left us again. The trolls were saying what I couldn’t.

“I thought I might try breastfeeding her,” Freya said.

“Really?” I asked. “Do you even have any milk left?”

“It’s just for the photo,” Freya said. “Even if she won’t latch, you can make it look like she’s nursing.”

The shoot was damage control. Maggie was just a prop.

“Sure,” I complied. Because I was invested in Freya’s celebrity.

She dragged herself off the sofa. “I need to shower and do my makeup. Make sure Maggie’s hungry so she takes the breast.”

? ? ?

Two hours later, Freya reappeared looking fresh and natural. Her hair was softly tousled, and you could barely tell that she had used a curling iron. Her face appeared wholesome and makeup-free; I knew it took a lot of skill (and a lot of makeup) to create that look. She wore a white eyelet peasant top: the epitome of demure sexiness.

“Let’s do this,” she said, lifting Maggie from the bouncy seat that kept her placid. It was the first time she had touched her daughter since her return.

“Support her head,” I said automatically.

Freya gave the child a cuddle and a kiss and then said, “I don’t like her outfit. Does she have anything white?”

White was a highly impractical color for a onesie, but I recalled seeing a summery dress in the nursery. “I think so.”

“Actually, maybe she should be naked. Skin on skin is good for kids, right?”

“Right.”

Freya lay the baby down and unbuttoned her onesie. I stood by with my camera, watching the businesslike precision with which Freya undressed her tiny daughter. Then she yanked down her top, exposing her perfect, non-lactating breast. She picked up the baby and pressed her face toward it.

Maggie had always been bottle-fed. She had not even taken to the pacifier that I’d offered her numerous times. So the human nipple Freya was now waving in her face was not of interest. I took a few shots, but the baby turned her head away, squirming in her mother’s arms.

“Come on, Maggie,” Freya cajoled, “take it.”

But Maggie let out a squawk of defiance, her little body stiffening with irritation. As I pressed the shutter button, Freya tightened her grip, pressing the back of the baby’s head toward her breast. “Do it, you little brat.”

And then, she shook her.

It was a small movement, not enough to seriously hurt Maggie, but it was rough. And it was scary. Maggie let out a piercing scream of shock and distress, and something surged in me. A mother-bear protectiveness. I suppose it’s natural that I would have developed a bond with the baby after our many hours together, but the visceral reaction took me by surprise. I dropped my camera onto the armchair.

“Give her to me.”

“No,” Freya snapped, clutching the little body now racked with sobs. “Just take the fucking picture.”

“Let me calm her down first.”

“I’ll put a blanket over her. No one will know she’s upset.”

“No.”

“Do it,” she commanded, her eyes flaming at me. “Or I’ll find another photographer. And another nanny.”

It was an ultimatum. Comforting Maggie could get me banished from her life. And Freya’s life. Though the child’s anguish tore at my heart, I reached for my camera. Then the doorbell rang.

We both froze. Only Maggie kept wriggling and screeching. My eyes met Freya’s ice-blue gaze, and I saw the same dread I felt. There was no way of knowing who was at the door, but somehow, we knew it was trouble.





61


The woman on the doorstep appeared only a few years older than I was, but she wore a cheap pantsuit and a severe bun, clearly an effort to be taken seriously. She held a briefcase in her hand, an old-timey rectangular one. She was even smaller than Freya, who was now standing in the open door, facing her.

“Freya Light?” she asked over Maggie’s continued screams. I bounced her gently and made shushing noises in her ear, but she was too traumatized to settle. We were standing several feet behind Freya, lurking in the foyer. She had dispatched Maggie and me to the nursery, but I had disobeyed her. I had to know who was at the door and what was going on.